Gothic Nocturne for Cold November
by Cries for Dissonance
Summary: A dark, twisted tale of righteous revenge, Nemesis, as two inseperable teens, bonded by the thickest chains of platonic love, are torn apart from one another. A year later, one of the teens, Paris, arises from the grave with a mystical crow as a guide to
1. Chapter 1

_Prelude to the Hell of Eternal Agony_

As the sun brushed the edge of the horizon, a fiery and proud, if not somewhat melancholic paintbrush tracing a line across a blue canvas, water lapped against the wooden pillars supporting the pier. The soft whispers as the waves gently brushed the barnacled wood was echoed by the wispy, content sigh of the wind blowing through Paris' black hair and Eryn's golden locks.

The air was warm and saturated with salt and the distant smell of fast food and gasoline. In front of Paris and Eryn, the water captured the blazing sunlight, a defiant resistance to the approach of night, and reflected it ten-fold in wavy, smoothly curving lines as it stretched towards the horizon.

Paris' dark hair, a starless, midnight black, the color of a raven's pinion, almost blue, was ruffled again by a zephyr's caress, and Eryn's radiant, proud gold mimicked the same movements.

Their silence was not uncomfortable, for they understood one another more deeply and more fully than twins. They had always been near one another since early childhood, and never once had they argued or fought. Paris loved her as a sister, and Eryn adored him as a brother.

Granted, they had never been lovers, yet their platonic relationship ran deeper and more passionate than the strongest of the raging, hormone-driven teenaged relationships they were surrounded with. They never questioned their relationship, nor did they ever wish for more. Whenever Eryn was hurt or in pain, Paris was by her side or in front of her, taking the physical or emotional blows. And should it be Paris in misery, Eryn could be found aiding him however possible, fighting his fights or taking his metaphorical bullets.

Paris stood up, his jeans rustling as he trod on the edges of the cuffs, his black converses tearing the cuff into a mess of tassels.

He did not have to say anything and yet Eryn knew what he was going to say.

"I know I'm not supposed to be out after dark, but daddy's been having a rough week. Can I sleep at your house?" she asked, biting her lower lip, lush and naturally red, her teeth pristine and straight from a childhood of braces. Her mother had died before Eryn was born, and neither of them ever spoke about her, leaving her alone with her vile, despicable father.

"Of course." He smiled, understanding her reasons; though as his vivid cerulean eyes met her emerald ones, she could see a spark of fury. Not for her, of course, but for her father: a drunken dead-beat that Paris knew abused her physically…and he suspected sexually as well.

Although Paris had never thought of Eryn in such light, she had a body to be coveted. She was tall, a little shorter than he, though still above average height, with a swell of bosom and long, toned legs leading towards a round bottom that attracted many a hungry gaze.

Though, most of the boys at their school took a look at Paris and decided against trying to "get some". He was slender but lithe, with a powerful, feline frame. He carried himself with a strange grace, like a stalking tiger, and those that had seen his protective nature provoked and burst into flames did not fault twice. Everyone in the school knew of Paris and Eryn's deep and complex relationship, and although Eryn had had boyfriends in the past, most were scared away by Paris. She did not much care, for if they were frightened of Paris' beautiful and deadly, entrancing grace, they did not meet her approval. Paris was always with her, and the few boyfriends that not only met his approval and were not afraid of him had been putting on acts to take advantage of Eryn's flawless form.

The same worked in reverse, for while Eryn was not jealous; girls steered away from Paris, admiring his dashing handsomeness at a distance, as one would a lion. Eryn would make it clear she did not like a girl, and if they did not meet Eryn's approval, they did not meet Paris'.

"Will your parents care?" asked Eryn, standing up as well, her dark scarlet dress and white shirt bordered by a black jacket blowing in the wind. Paris' jeans and tight black shirt with _Black November_ written in red calligraphy across the chest also moved with the breeze.

He shook his head and wrapped an arm around Eryn's shoulders. It was getting darker and colder, for three quarters of the sun had set beneath the sapphire waves.

"They'll be out for most of the night, and remember, we've got our big show tonight," said Paris as they walked up the pier.

Eryn's pretty face lit up and she suppressed a giggle. "Oh yeah! _Black November_'s big debut!"

Paris laughed, rich and full, and as they reached the parking lot from which the long pier branched off, he took out car keys from his pocket.

"I got new strings for both of us, too. Well, technically for James and Renault, too, but whatever, we can pretend it's a present," he said as he unlocked the car and slid into the driver's seat. His father had bought him the dark blue car for his sixteenth birthday.

The man wasn't really his father; Paris was an orphan and the man and his wife had adopted them. He loved them and hated them equally, feeling deep admiration for their continued support on an adopted child who frequently disobeyed and resented their existence. They did not beat him or abuse him at all, but they did not like Eryn, which, to Paris, was worse.

"Oh, thanks dear, you really didn't have to," said Eryn, hugging him as best one can while sitting in a car with the seatbelt on.

"No problem, babe. 'sides, we gotta be in our best shape tonight." They called one another "babe" or "hun" or "love", but they were more nicknames than actual titles of affection.

Eryn nodded, and turned on the radio as Paris backed out. Finding nothing, she switched to the car's CD player. After a few seconds of delay as the player scanned the CD, a song more than halfway through began to play.

Paris tapped in time with the song on the steering wheel, and turned towards Eryn.

"You know what? We should do a cover of this, sometime."

Eryn closed her eyes and bobbed her head slightly in time with the dirge-like, slow and saturnine song.

"I don't know if we'd do it justice; this song kicks some serious ass," she said after a few more seconds of listening to the song.

Paris nodded consent, though a little downcast. He would need her approval if _Black November_, their co-owned band, were to make a cover of the song. They had equal power, and since she was the lead guitar, he would need her musical talents as well.

"Though, y'know, it would be pretty sweet to hear this song done differently, like we could still keep it sad and low, right, but pick up the tempo and make it more rough and raging," she mused.

"Yeah!" agreed Paris as he sped down the street, nearing his home.

As he pulled into the driveway and killed the engine, he saw his foster mother, a short and rail-thin woman with red hair stung gray piled on her horse-like face. She was standing in front of the door, her arms crossed and her foot tapping in the universal sign of irritation and impatience.

Paris guessed it was irritation, nay, open anger, as she saw Eryn emerge from the passenger's seat.

"_What_ is she doing here?" demanded Paris' mother.

"_She's_ spending the night _here_, Wanda," spat Paris, refusing his foster mother any sort of title. She was only his equal, nay, his inferior, as he saw it, but yet, she still provided for him. It was heart wrenching, tearing him in two, yet his platonic love for Eryn outweighed his admiration for her tenacity and patience.

"She can't stay here! She had her own home!" cried Wanda, her face caught in disbelief at the prospect.

"She's slept over here hundreds of times before, and we've got a show tonight, plus you and Rick've got dinner or something to go to," said Paris. It would be a lie to say he was arguing; his tone denoted that it was final, and that she was sleeping at his house no matter what.

Wanda was speechless, and stormed into the house to find Rick, Paris' foster father. She returned, presently, and repeated Paris' words to her husband, similarly short and fat, with perpetually red skin he attributed to Native American blood.

"Paris, she said _no_. Now, you obey her or—"

"Ha, or else _what?_ What're you going to do, huh?" retorted Paris, crossing his arms across his chest.

Rick's face reddened and the thick, steel-gray mustache beneath his bulbous nose blew out slightly as he exhaled in anger.

"Don't you _ever_ take that tone with me, damn it!"

Paris laughed and motioned for Eryn to follow him. He walked around the side of his foster parents' small, one-floor, pastel blue house, and to the window that led to his room. He always left it unlocked, for situations like these were quite common.

As he tumbled into his room and Eryn followed, he grabbed his bass, and Eryn's guitar—left at his house at some hazy interval in the past; she could have left it any of the myriad times she had snuck into his room—and the packet of new strings before motioning for her to crawl out of the window first. He heard his parents approaching the door and heard his foster mother whisper something about "illicit sex".

There was a rattle as one of them, Paris did not know which, grabbed the doorknob…only to find the door locked. He grinned and raised his middle finger at the door before handing Eryn, who was giggling and smiling a triumphant, lovely smile, the instruments. He then nearly leapt through the window and sprinted towards his car, ripping open the door and slamming his key into the ignition.

Eryn slid the instruments into the backseat, one in the floor, the other on the seat, before spinning and jumping into the passenger's seat just as the front door to the house opened.

Paris flicked his foster parents off again, this time so they could see it, and sped backwards, smoothly but quickly driving away from his home.

"Oh _man_, I love you!" screamed Eryn, hugging Paris and kissing him on the cheek. She whooped with glee and rolled down the window, screaming at pedestrians.

"Yeah, I love you, too," agreed Paris, grinning, as he drove to James', their secondary guitarist, house.

The rest of the ride was in compatible silence, somehow, for their triumphant energy was stored, needed for later, for their show. The slow humming of the car, a distant purr, the sigh as another car passed them, and the quiet whisper of _Burn_ on the CD player, fading away as it ended, all created an almost somber atmosphere.

"Paris, without you, life would be meaningless. I've never really had a real boyfriend, like someone I've fallen in love with, like a romantic way, but you're even closer to me than that. And…I…" her breath hitched, and a quiet sob overcame her, growing in intensity. "I really do love you, so much."

Her tears nearly caused Paris to cry himself, but he held it barely in check as he pulled into James' parents' driveway. They, unlike Paris' foster parents or Eryn's father, actually enjoyed Eryn and Paris' company.

James opened the front door and stepped out with a smile and a skip in his step. He loved being around Paris and Eryn, loved the way they seemed to work in harmony, just as their instruments flowed with one another.

"Hey guys, to what do I owe this _won_derful pleasure?" he said, slapping hands with Paris and hugging Eryn.

"Ah, y'know, parents're bein' bitches…again," sighed Paris, walking to the backseat of his car and taking out his bass. "I got you some new strings for tonight, dude."

"Fuck yeah, man! You didn't need to, though," exhaled James, surprised by the sudden visit and the gifts.

Paris repeated himself, explaining their obvious need to be in their best shape. James nodded and shrugged, though still surprised and happy.

"Oh, yeah, please come inside, guys. I'll call Matthew later; get the whole band together to chill before we play," said James, holding the front door open as Eryn and Paris entered his house, instruments and strings in hand.

James' father, a balding man with a warm, jolly face, looked up from a book as Paris and Eryn entered.

"Ah, _Black November_ arises, huh?" he asked with a chuckle, hugging Eryn lightly and clapping Paris on the back. He was as much of a fan as anyone Paris' age, and his background as a rock and roll fan during the "Golden Age", as he nostalgically referred to it as, helped charge the crowds during _Black November's_ few shows. The fans were impressed if the band's sound could attract an older man, who was as active in the crowd as anyone else.

"Yeah, you ready for a good show?" asked James as he closed the front door behind him.

His father nodded and scratched his chin stubble. "So…what songs d'you think you'll play? Just as a teaser for an old fan." He grinned and looked at them earnestly, a chuckle just behind his lips.

"We've got a new one, brand-fuckin'-fresh, just for tonight," cried Eryn, throwing her devil's horns and sticking her tongue out as best she could while laughing.

James' father did mind her cursing, and whooped with joy, pumping his fist in the air and shouting,

"Yeah! _Black November'll_ kick so much fuckin' ass tonight!" He slapped hands with everyone, but a voice from a nearby room dampened his spirits.

"Rick! No cursing in front of our son and his friends!" The voice cut through Rick's excitement, severed it like a chainsaw through a sapling's trunk, and his eyebrows drooped as the rest of the tree fell.

"Alright, Linda, have it _your_ way. No fun in the damned house," he muttered, but James' mother's sharp ears caught his words.

"Rick! What did I just say?" A creaking followed by irritated footsteps announced her arrival, and she smiled politely to Paris and Eryn.

"It's good to see you two, though, please excuse my husband's _aw_ful behavior," she said, smiling maternally, as if Rick were more of her child than her husband.

"Yeah, my fuckin' awful behavior's gone down the shitter," moaned Rick, winking at the teens and meeting Linda's open-mouthed stare of shock with a countenance of perfect innocence, ruined only by a slight grin.

James laughed and motioned for Paris and Eryn to leave his parents. He led them down a hallway of green carpet, with pictures adorning the walls, marking monumental milestones in James' sixteen-year-old existence.

At the end of the hallway was a door leading down into a basement, where Rick had moved all of James' band equipment. Recently, they had added a red couch and a small refrigerator. James had wanted to move his bed down as well, but his mother's iron will did not bend.

As the basement also served as storage, Paris dodged old lawnmowers and walls of cardboard boxes ready to spill their contents with the brush of moth's wings. He laid his bass in one corner, against a stack of books, mostly photo albums from Rick and Linda's earlier days.

He sat down on the red couch and closed his eyes, sighing. He did not need to deal with his parents' melodramatic death-grip on his life (as he viewed it), or the terrifying shadow Eryn's father encompassed her with.

After she had seen that her guitar was safely set aside, she sat down next to him and laid her head on his shoulder. He smiled and smoothed her hair, feeling their bodies rise and fall together, their hearts pound in tandem.

He felt a warm wetness on his shoulder, seeping through his black shirt, and he looked at Eryn. Her eyes were squeezed shut and her lower lip quivered slightly, and from her closed eyes slid silent tears, tracing paths of hurt and bewilderment, mimicking their countless forefathers.

Instantly, Paris' heart pained, and he bit his tongue to stop from crying. He leaned to her ear, and brushing soft, golden hair aside, he whispered in her ear,

"Eryn…what's wrong? If there's anything at all, I promise to you that I'll do whatever I can to help. If—" He did not finish his pledge as his voice hitched and a hot, blinding tear fell from his azure eyes. It landed on Eryn's hand and slowly it coursed its way down the side, running over the base of her thumb. She raised her hand to her mouth and kissed the tear away. He smiled lovingly, and brushed off her tears, only to be replaced by fresh ones.

"Daddy…" she managed before the waves of bitter, passionate emotion coupled with tears, like Strife following Ares, destroyed her voice and raped her self-control. She fell into Paris, leaned against his chest, and cried without stop.

Paris felt a sudden heat rising in his stomach, boiling malignantly, mixing with his melancholy over Eryn's state, and as fire ignites a barn full of hay, his anger consumed his depression hungrily. His eyes flashed behind tears, and before he could do anything else, James—who had gone upstairs momentarily, unnoticed by either Paris or Eryn—returned and found them both in a wrecked state.

"Fuck, what happened? Eryn, it's your father again, isn't it? God dammit! Paris, we gotta—", cried James, running his hands through his brown, curly hair.

"Do what? Do you want us to go and kill Eryn's only living relative?" asked Paris in a deceptively quiet and calm voice. Internally, he was ready to explode, he _wanted_ to kill Eryn's father, he wanted to hear the man _scream_.

James was quiet but was not offended by Paris' interjection. They sat in relative silence, broken by Eryn's heart-shattering sobs. She managed a level of control over herself, eventually, and looked up at Paris, kissing him on the cheek, the corner of her lips brushing against the very tip of his. It immediately calmed him, and a different heat, a more pleasant fire, burned shortly in his heart.

"D-daddy…he r-r-raped me th-th'other n-night. He s-said he'd k-k-k-kill me-e if I t-told anyone, but…" At this, she did not burst back into tears, but sighed and wilted, almost, collapsing into a mentally exhausted mass. Paris picked her up with shaking arms, fury just below the surface, boiling his blood, and laid her on the couch. She lay with her eyes open, but just barely so, and her breathing was uneven and shaky at best.

Upstairs, the doorbell rang, and James got up. Paris sat near Eryn's head, softly playing with her hair, coaxing her into a relaxed and calm state.

Moments later, James returned with Matthew, the stocky drummer, built like a football player. He was naturally quiet and shy, and had an almost psychic intuitiveness about him. He had sensed the mood as soon as he had reached the door to the basement, and upon greeting him, gave Paris a light hug and patted Eryn on the back.

One would not notice it, but Matthew's hazel eyes, outwardly calm, if not somewhat startled by everything around him, held malicious glints deep within their center confines. The glint was ten-fold as dangerous in Paris', and Matthew noticed it, but did nothing about it.

_Black November_ sat in silence for nearly half an hour before Matthew looked at his wristwatch and sighed in a soft voice,

"It's almost five. Our show is at six thirty. Let's go ahead and drive there, tune up, get warmed up, everything."

Eryn sat up and nodded, her red-rimmed eyes distant and saturnine. Paris' visage echoed her sadness, and James' was alternating between blank and furious at the inability to do anything. Matthew's was introspectively calm, as usual, but sadness marred it like thick, black strokes destroying a priceless watercolor.

Paris drew his car keys from his pocket and James jingled keys of his own, and everyone grabbed their instruments. Before exiting from a backdoor, Paris grabbed the packets of new strings.

-- (_denotes passage of time)_

Paris stood on the stage, if one could really call it such: a raised area hardly elevated from the crowd. The crowd was a writhing mass of snakes, a wild pride of lions, tearing their new kill to shreds.

Paris played the first note, low and deep on his bass, while the guitar intro was first played by Eryn—dry-eyed and composed, smiling, caught in the music—then again with James following suit. With a crescendo of crashing cymbals from Matthew, they launched into the song.

Eryn sang beautifully, her seraphic voice contrasted with the heavy music, drifting from the fast-paced realm of punk into the heavier, darker realm of hardcore, even border lining metal.

As _Black November_ reached a powerful bridge, heavy, thick notes in quick repetition, Eryn's voice reached an unbelievable level of unbridled grace. It wove with the music, but it was sad, it was tainted with melancholy.

Paris thought of her father, of her being sad, of his inability to do anything. Rage boiled with in him, his fingers plucking the strings more furiously than was necessary. The crowd was throwing itself, a single entity, around in a frenzied mass. They loved it, and Paris hated the anger flaming inside of him. It grew, with his hatred, and consumed his depression, burning, raging, untouched and unrivaled.

Paris leaned forward into his mic, normally only used for secondary vocals, and screamed, his voice full of passion and energy. He screamed, and the crowd cheered. His scream formed into words, echoing Eryn's. She did not seem phased, and, oddly, his lonely and hurt cries joined her beautiful singing, and together they made an unexpected equilibrium.

As the song began fading out, the last note ringing, rough with distortion, Paris screamed one last time, the grating of his voice echoing around the room, fading in time with the music. His face was red, his mouth open, his eyes furious and still burning with the energy from the song.

The crowd was silent for a split-second, then erupted into cheers. A chant of _Black November_ started, and Paris turned to face Eryn and James. James gave him the middle finger with a mock scowl, and then switched to a thumb's up and a smile. Eryn beamed at him, and although no one could see it, Paris blushed. He turned around and saw Matthew rising from his drums, then walking over to Paris and placing a hand on his shoulder, laughing and smiling.

The scene was burned into Paris' memory, never to be forgotten. It was a moment completely separate from the flow of time or from the slippery, loose fingers of memory.

Back at James' house, they celebrated. Even Linda, who did not much care for _Black November_, joined in. Rick had bought a cake and while Linda was gone to the bathroom, slipped James a sip of beer. They ate and talked, Paris smiling and laughing as they congratulated him on a spectacular performance.

"Where did all that energy come from?" asked Rick, regarding Paris with studious eyes.

Paris lied and shrugged. "It was just improv, it just came to me."

Rick nodded and turned his attention as Matthew asked him a question about famous drum solos.

Eryn met Paris' eyes, and she knew. She understood why he had screamed, and where it came from. She smiled weakly, and under the table, she grabbed Paris' hand and squeezed lightly, saying more in her gesture than in words.

_I'm glad for your newfound talent, but I wish I wasn't the root of it. I want you to be able to do with even if I'm happy_ said her faint smile.

He reassured her he could do it anytime with a smile of his own and a light squeeze of her hand.

They then let go of one another and resumed the general celebration conversation, which carried deep into the night.

--

Paris lay on the couch with Eryn next to him, James and Matthew passed out in drunken slumber on the floor. They had "borrowed" Rick's alcohol, though Paris and Eryn had hardly touched theirs.

A thousand half-formed sentences rushed through Paris' head, but he let silence reign. He felt her shift next to him, and looked over at her. She gazed back at him, her eyes, only inches from his, their noses, all but touching, and their lips…

"Paris, you've always been there for me, no matter what, just like you said you would. You've never hurt me or lied to me, and I've always tried to be there for you, too. I really do love you, so much, and…" She bit her lower lip and slowly moved forward, her naturally red lips just barely brushing his, her eyes half-closed. Her hand moved to his cheek, and his fingers found their way into her hair as their lips pressed together, first lightly, then harder, more fully.

They pulled away after a second, both of them breathing hard. Neither knew what was going on, but neither cared; they both knew that they had wanted this to happen. They slowly moved together for another kiss—

All the sound drained from Paris' world. A faint ringing was present, but nothing else. A phantom knife grazed his cheek, but the searing pain was real. His vision was blurry and distorted, and everything was red. His face was warm, covered with warm, sticky. Red.

Oh god.

What was—

Thunder crashed above his head, once, twice. He fell to the floor and something heavy slammed into his chest. He looked up and saw the stock of a shotgun. On the table to his left were two bloody stumps…

Rick and Linda's severed heads stared back, unblinking.

James was sliding down the wall opposite the couch in a mess of red, grayish-white and bits of flesh stuck to the plaster. There was red on the floor, too, Matthew's blood. His body was still behind the couch.

Paris looked up, again, struggled to a sitting position. Eryn was held in front of him, totally naked, with cuts slashing across her chest and stomach, across her flawless face. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Tears streamed down her face, and she worked her mouth fruitlessly.

Someone was behind her, a shotgun in one hand, and a straight razor in the other. The person's face was obscured behind Eryn's, but Paris did not recognize the body type. Eryn screamed again and again, and Paris noticed with disgusting clarity how the figure behind her was moving backwards and forwards, their hips pumping. A small droplet of blood ran down the back of Eryn's thigh, and she whimpered.

She suddenly flung herself forward, towards Paris. She escaped the rapist's clutches, and crashed into Paris' arms. He was stunned and speechless, paralyzed. She had stopped crying, and her face encompassed his entire view. Blood mixed with tears and snot on her face, but she planted a kiss on his lips and whispered in his ear,

"I love you, Paris."

He tried to whisper back, but she was yanked backwards from his face, from his life. The rapist fired again with the shotgun, and Eryn was suddenly flung back towards Paris in waves of red and splatters of other material. He vomited, and the warm taste of blood in his mouth somehow broke his paralysis. He leapt up and charged at the killer, but the straight razor halted his path, thrusting a burning line across his throat.

The rapist laughed quietly as he leveled the shotgun and bashed Paris in the jaw. His mouth opened in a cry of pain, and twin barrels of cold steel were thrust into the opening. The sickening, vivid comparison of his oral rape via shotgun mirroring Eryn's rape caused him to vomit again, into the barrels of the gun. He noticed, distantly, that there were no sirens, no sign of the outside world.

He had no time to ponder this, for his world exploded into a flash of white doves, a stampede of nightmare-black horses, all in a microsecond.

_Death is but life's greatest mystery._

End Prelude.


	2. Chapter 2

_First Blood._

The rain hadn't stopped yet; for three days it poured, as if all of Heaven was crying in uniform sorrow. Night had spread itself like an uneasy blanket over the cemetery, where trees full of life towered over cold, hard granite. Usually, the tree would be wrapped in a green inferno, had the sunlight ignited the leaves with rampant color; now, it was just another gray shape against the larger shade of five past eleven p.m.

Not one. Not two. Three. Three whole years had passed in a bloody, incompetent, lazy streak. The police tried honestly, earnestly, but the killer had committed suicide shortly afterwards, they believed. There certainly was enough gore for a grand total of eight victims, may the Red Death hold sway over us all.

But now, vengeance bowed and exited stage right, left the discorporate, ethereal Hell realm, and roared, pounding, shrieking and tearing, into life.

Birth is not a lovely thing to see. A second birth, a first blood, is a horrible blasphemy. Paris' second birth was unspeakable, but thankfully, no one saw it that evening.

His grave danced with St. Elmo's Fire, blue will-o-wisps that haunted his final burial place and his first stop on the roadmap that would lead him straight back to Hell…only wearing a shit-eatin' grin, this time.

His fingers probed the surface like pale earthworms, but raged like blind, skinless serpents as he flailed, the sudden horror of realizing he _wasn't_ dead, that he had been unconscious, something, just buried alive, invading him and giving him strength beyond his wildest fantasies.

Earth flew in fragmented clods—oh so much like skulls torn apart by a shotgun oh god so alike it even feels like blood and brains and bone—and he pushed one arm through. Cold rain barraged him, but he welcomed the sensation. Subconsciously, he wanted to know he could still feel and felt relief; his conscious mind wailed and wept as it leaned dangerously close to the chasm of insanity. He forced logic and reason and the light of comprehensive thought into his brain. He did multiplication tables, something ordered, anything…but it slipped uselessly away.

He screamed. His lungs gasped for air like baby vampires gasp weakly for blood. He raged. His vocal chords rang like the heavy-wound strings of a bass, thumping and grinding themselves raw. He roared, and the small image of himself, teetering on the precipitous edge just beyond his toes, laughed and mimicked the yell.

Something spoke.

Rather…something cawed.

Paris turned, determined to satisfy a sudden, animalistic, bestial craving for blood and the adrenaline thrill of murder. He wanted to kill whatever had made that noise and disturbed him from his shapeless, bottleneck foxhole of agony where the only exit was blocked by SS Officer Fleeting Memories and SS Officer Suicide.

A large crow cawed again, eyed him sideways, and Paris…he could see himself. He was distorted like an image in the funhouse at a traveling carnival, but it was nonetheless him. He extended a hand towards the bird and he saw the hand near…himself?

"What…the…" he croaked, his voice the dry rattle of dust against bones against a colder tombstone. The sound of his voice startled him and he cleared his throat. His heart rate had finally slowed and he thought he could control himself.

_I can figure this out,_ he thought to himself.

_Of course you can, boy. You're not an idiot, are you?_ asked a rough voice, like the calloused hand of a father. Paris smiled weakly; this was some sort of Stephen King shit. It was the crow talking to him, wasn't it? It had to be; what else would it be?

"If I crow could speak, it'd have your voice," he said quietly. There was a strange feeling that smothered everything else like choking vines. It was a queer, oily sensation, like roiling, tempestuous, raw strength refined into a sort of polished gasoline, a fuel. And dangerously near this newfound strength—_This god-given strength,_ Paris thought, then corrected himself, _this dead-given strength_—was the flame eternal of rage, of passion, of deepest melancholies and highest malice.

The moon broke free of its cloud-cage and suddenly the whole graveyard was illuminated like the bright eye of a lycanthrope. Paris _knew_ why he was back, he _knew_ it with all of his existence—_that is, if I have any sort of "existence" left,_ he thought with a bitter laugh—but somehow, perhaps thankfully, his subconscious refused to accept it.

"Yeah, it's better this way. I don't have to accept it, and if I do, then I'm fucked." He smiled, pleased that the sound of his voice was calm and unperturbed. Only…

_Only it's too calm. It's hysterically calm, like the eye of a hurricane's calm._

To take his mind from this horrible truth he began moving. His funeral clothes—what had been a sharp navy suit but was now destroyed and in rags—fell off like the limbs of a leper with each step. Before long, Paris was completely naked. His skin shone like ivory in the moonlight, his body hard-muscled and toned. He flexed and felt the strength of the gods within him. It was all too…feline. His grace, his power, his speed, it all felt so arrogantly cat-like.

Thankfully, the graveyard was beside a church at the end of a long lane, and the church was as black as the night around it. Paris didn't think he could explain this to anyone, even if he tried.

He kept moving, dutifully, clockwork motions that lead him past the church, still naked, and stumbling, confused onto a homeless man in the deeper stages of sleep. His beard was gray and riddled with trash and refuse, and his clothes reminded Paris of garbage heaps woven into thread.

A crow cawed. The Crow cawed.

_What?_ spat Paris. _You want something?_

The crow's voice did not ring in his head. Instead, there was a dark flapping of fallen angels' pinions as the bird soared overhead, and landed fitfully on the homeless man. It pecked at his skull, rapped with its beak, not hard enough to gouge or break skin, but enough to wake him up and leave him angry.

"Wha' th' fuck, mayun? Th' fuck's yer problem?" growled the bum. He saw Paris' naked form and faster than lightning, he drew a short-bladed knife. There was a dangerous, perhaps crazy glint in his eyes, and Paris felt wild laughter building up in his chest.

_No, not wild laughter. Crazy laughter. Madman giggles. I've got an _insane_ case of the giggles_.

He broke into open laughter, and the bum, confused and scared and hurt, rushed him with the knife.

Paris' laugh turned into a snarl, and sidestepped the knife thrust, grabbing the man's extended forearm. With a sharp motion, a glimmer of bone and a hot spray rewarded the boy. There was the beginnings of a scream building in the homeless man's throat, but they dissolved into gurgles and strangled gasps for air.

Paris laughed again, quiet, the seductive, sexual purr of a cello. There was a knife in his hands, blood on his body, and all the weight of Hell on his shoulders.

_The hand that hesitates to kill will falter when it needs to be strong,_ said the crow.

_Fuck you_, whispered Paris. He felt like screaming but the whisper was so much deadlier. Deadlier than the knife in his hand or the newfound strength in his limbs.

But it was a good deadly, wasn't it? Wasn't it like the adrenaline rush, like a splash of cum, like a violent overture by a wild string section, razor-lined violins on vein strings stretched taut?

Paris felt a sort of sick, lopsided, crazed grin slid onto his face. There would be murder, this night, this fresh, young, virgin night, and he would be the skeleton in a vengeance-shaped bag of flesh, with wild hellflames for eyes.


End file.
